come, let us follow the wind.

writing masterpost: (m* indicates mature content, p for prompt fill) *there is more fic than this around. this is just what i wanted to list. more can be found on my ao3*

fallen hero:

comparing hand sizes (p) nostalgia (p) hand searching (p) don’t stop (color on the walls) would never call it love (m*) stars (p) foolish (p) quarter past two am not quite people enough morning after (junebug) tuesday two in the afternoon

the wayhaven chronicles:

our reflections (m + nb!detective) diaries (p) (m + nb!detective) this car has some surprises (m*) (m + nb!detective)

misc:

The bed shifts, leg settled back into the sheets and Ortega moves away. Hands drifting away, breath going with it.

Never a rhyme to it, the cold panic that sharply seizes his brain. Bile thick from his stomach, immediate on the back of his tongue. Words spill out before he has the air for them:

“Don’t.” Stomach knotting, eeked out from a tight throat. “Stop, please. D-Don’t….”

Fuck. Fuck!!

Voice breaking and he shakes from his lungs down to his toes. Closes his mouth tight. Slam his hand in the proverbial doorway; breaking his fingers, but it still all oozes from the cracks. Shame crawling up his spine, desperate to be felt. Digging its nasty fingers as it cries at him.

Screaming behind his ribs and with it comes the guilt. Rot his gut, twisted in his intestines—curdled and aching in his molars. His tongue is heavy. Sweaty and hot, hair stuck to skin. Skin stuck to skin, under his chest, under his arms—between his thighs. Sticky.

Shameful.

“Pollux?”

Too aware of himself. Too aware that others are aware. Eyes seeing too much, never doing anything. Anger like a riot that makes his gums hurt.

It’s disgusting. Shameful.

He wants to vomit.

The bed is still and Pollux hates this: the falling apart. Worse still in front of Ortega. He’s stock still as Pollux all but ruins himself in the bed once again. Too many little deaths between the sheets. It’s pathetic how this still rules his brain, keeps its gnarled nails dug in, fingers jammed down his throat. Nose bleeding down to his lips.

“Hey, I’m here. Pollux, I’m here.”

He mouths the word ‘don’t’ to make it taste real, that he is here; he’s here.

Pushing past the heavy weight to sit up, his body protesting—screeching—it’s not safe. It’s not safe, it’s not safe it’s not safe it’s not safe. Pull apart the want to death curl, righting himself; ignore the self soothing—wanting to cradle his chin against his chest, dig nail lines into his skin and try to forget. Shut the door to memories better left dead.

“I got you. I’ve got you.”

Trembling, daring himself to touch and his hand brushes against Ortega’s bare chest. Curly hair beneath his fingers, the edge of the fine golden necklace he wears (knot his fingers in the chain, until they turn white, purple black). It stays tuck to skin with sweat. Finding his heartbeat there, breath hitching, but he steadies.

Static.

Licking a battery. Cheek pressed against a television screen. Rub his face against it until the static shock snap crackle pop. That dirty hide out on the border, resting against Ortega’s stomach. Unable to sleep. The soft hum of the generator an anchor as the floor tried to eat him alive.

It sticks to his brain, cotton balls in his ears and he needs it. Sharp. Bright. Blinding. Blast away the worst of what wriggles in his mind—maggots in his grave dirt. He always liked the way the electricity felt coursing along his nerves.

His cheeks are wet, lips trembling but pulling back to bare teeth instead of sobbing. Breath hissed out of his teeth. Ortega’s hand is pressing his hand against his chest, thumb caressing his knuckles. Peak to valley peak to valley. Cold metal of his ports.

Inert. Safe.

The tension bleeds like a stuck pig, squealing with its last breath and his chest gives in, ribs collapsing. Shoulders dropping. A shuddered cry dies in Pollux’s throat, flopping like a dead fish in the held air between them. A sniffle as it goes belly up, eyes glazed over.

“Lux..?” Ortega whispers.

“Come here…please.”

Pollux’s own voice, so distant in his ears; finally, painfully looking up—eyes rolling like stones in his thick skull and Ortega finds his eyes first. Horribly soft—gut wrenchingly so. Hands finding his face, cradling his cheeks just so. Real and warm, too big for his face. Too small for all Pollux asks. A kiss pressed to his forehead, eyelids—his cheekbones and bridge of the nose.

Apologies neither of them can bear to say or to hear.